The Smaller Evil (21 page)

EVERYTHING.

Do you remember? Do you?

You sat in a coffee shop in Santa Barbara that day, at a table out on the covered patio. It was April. There was an ocean breeze and the scent of sea kelp in the air. The events of that summer were still vivid in your mind, but they were also far behind you. You'd made your choice and you were fine with it. There was no philosophy to life, you'd decided on that rich June day, before you'd called off Kira and Dale. Before you persuaded them to stay with you at the compound. Because they were your friends. True friends. It really was that simple. The same went for staying on your medication. There was no existential dilemma in that, no answers begging to be sought and no truths that would be better off just because you'd found them. Your needs were filled and the only truth you cared to follow was the here and now. That's what worked.

That's what mattered.

You'd been making plans that afternoon in the coffee shop—scoping locations, wanting to do everything just right. It was great being back in a college town. It wasn't your town, but what could be easier? You spied a newspaper resting on the next table over, discarded by a prior occupant, and you reached to grab it. It was the
New York Times
. Sunday edition. You read while drinking your soy latte, and you wished you'd asked for more foam. You often wished that, although asking for what you wanted had never come as easy as telling people what you needed them to hear. But you were working on it.

Evolving.

Your eyes skimmed the pages of the paper, suddenly catching on an article, or really, being caught. It was the profile of a man whose weeklong programs aimed at self-actualization and social resilience were becoming increasingly popular. There were training courses and sites popping up in different states. New York. Illinois. Oregon. California. Some people called it a cult. Or a con. But
not the people who actually went. Those people used words like
life-changing
,
transcendent
, and most of all,
healing
. The courses were expensive, of course, but what price could you put on a lifetime of inner peace and empowerment, free from the bonds of emotional pollution and the chaos of disease?

There was a photograph, too, and you knew what you'd see even before you looked—the wise face of a fox who could always set his own snare when needed. That's what Beau was, wasn't he? Sly. Quick-witted.

In ways you couldn't help but admire.

You were right about what you'd see, of course. The picture of Beau was a handsome one. It was recent, too, taken near Lake George in upstate New York. He'd gotten sun, more color, but still there were no lines on his smiling face.

Not one.

What you didn't expect to see was the girl beside him, tucked under his arm with her cheek pressed against his chest. Your breath hitched not only because of their intimacy, but because even across newsprint and miles and countless lies, you still wanted her.

So very badly.

You read the photo's caption next. Your eyes danced past Beau's name to reach hers. Then you gasped. You couldn't help it. Because the truth wasn't the lie you expected; the cook you'd known with the bare legs and the yellow dress wasn't Beau's young lover. She never had been. She was his daughter.

Beatrice.

You smiled then, despite the wounding knife-twist of nostalgia, both because she was lovely and because there was still mystery in the world. You smiled, because in that moment—no matter the truth or the strength of the blade—you were something far more than nothing.

And that, you finally knew, was everything.

To Michael Bourret and Andrew Karre; to Phyllis Naylor, Viola Canales, Selene Castrovilla, and Elizabeth Levy; to Dana Li, Cara Petrus, Kristin Logsdon, Melissa Faulner, Natalie Vielkind, and all the wise, talented, and wonderful people at Dutton; to kind and kitty-loving Anne Heausler; to early readers and dear friends, Brandy Colbert, Deb Driza, and Sarah Enni; and to my beloved family, Will, Sid, Tessa, and Severin—thank you. You are my systems that work and so much more. This book wouldn't exist without you.

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